Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

The only trouble came when one of the kids in my gym class asked me how it felt to fuck my teacher. I got him alone on. the back side of the track field, and it was all over before anybody was aware of what had happened. He was out of school for two weeks and never squealed. I'm glad he believed me when I told him what I'd do to him if he talked, because I meant it. I would have killed the little bastard.

Susan was nervous about going back, but the day of her return was long-overdue retribution for us both. She had a light walking cast from her toes to her knee and, because of it, was barelegged. She wore a white, print dress with a scoop neck and short, puffy sleeves. Her hair flowed long, and she tied it in back with a blue ribbon to match the design of her dress. I made her take a light cardigan sweater to guard against the chill in the classroom, and with her gazing proudly at a bright new engagement ring, we left for school. Gone forever were the funny shoes and clothes, the plain-glass spectacles and the old-fashioned hairdo. Susan was beautiful, radiant and scared. We went to the TLR for early morning coffee and donuts. When we walked in conversation stopped, abruptly.

"Good morning, everybody," Susan said brightly. She hobbled over to pour coffee and get do-nuts for us while I pulled out two chairs at the table.

Ken finally broke the silence. "Well, I'll be goddamned."

Woody did a little better. He said, "Good Lord!"

Dave and the others just stared, incredulous at what they were seeing as Susan Lawrence compared to what they remembered as Susan Lawrence. Susan brought over our tray and served me, making a show by putting in my cream and sugar and lighting a cigarette for me. And as we looked around the room at those beautiful, astonished expressions, our apprehensions turned to confidence.

We were home free. One look at her cute innocence and they all were charmed out of their skulls.

I raised my coffee cup like a champagne glass. "Gentlemen," I said loudly, "the Queen is dead. Long live the Queen."

There was a moment's silence, and then Ken, bless him, lifted his coffee mug and dutifully repeated, "Long live the Queen."

And we all laughed.

Graduation and summer vacation finally came, to the relief of us all. Mr. Oaks presented my diploma and as I shook his big hand he whispered that it had never given him such pleasure to graduate anybody. I told him that I knew how he felt and thanked him for his kindness. When he returned to his car he would find a case of good scotch on his front seat and a note saying only, "Thanks from the two of us." Ken, Woody, and Dave each received a bottle of their favorite, with the same note, and we sent Mrs. Wiggins a box of lovely, embroidered hankies. Mrs. Gilchrist had decided to retire, and Susan was chosen by Mr. Oaks to take her place, as permanent faculty. We were truly grateful to these understanding people who could have made our life hell, and chose instead to give us a chance for happiness.

The excitement and anticipation of our trip to Israel began to dominate our lives. It wasn't so much the fact that it was Israel as that it was somewhere out of the country, and neither of us had ever been abroad. We got passports, shots, plane tickets, and reservations at a small guest hotel 'called a pension near Tel Aviv. We lay nightly in each other's arms, going over our itinerary for the thousandth time. We were to fly to New York and leave from there on June twenty-eighth, returning on August first to- be married before the following semester began. All of the arrangements we could think of had been made, and we counted off the days.

Then, on June twenty-sixth, my mother became ill. Susan wanted to postpone the trip, but, being trained in common sense and logic, I told her that that was silly. If we didn't go as scheduled we'd lose our hotel reservations, and who knew, with Israel's limited tourist capacity at the time, if we'd be able to get them later? I absolutely insisted that she go on alone to Tel Aviv, to use our reservations, and that I would Join her in a few days, when I was assured that my morn was okay. Reluctantly she agreed.

I drove Susan to the airport and checked her baggage through. In the boarding area I held her close to me, savoring her sweet, clean fragrance and the softness of her yielding fully against me. Her lips, as ever, warm in my ear, whispered, "Remember, if the plane goes down or anything, remember how much I loved you."

I stood on the observation platform and watched until she became a dot, distant and fading in the sky.

Three days later, what we thought might have been something serious turned out to be just a wild form of flu. All of my mother's tests and X rays were negative, so I prepared for my flight to New York. I was thinking that Susan was in Tel Aviv now. She was at the hotel, walking the avenues, maybe having an orange juice at a sidewalk cafe. I tried to picture where she would be at any given moment, tried, to figure out the time difference on my watch, but grew confused with the arithmetic. What difference did it make? I myself would be leaving the following night.

The jangling telephone jolted me out of sleep at five-thirty in the morning. It was Susan's mother. She was laughing about something. Why would she phone me just for a joke at this hour of the morning? Was she drunk? I tried to remember if Susan had told me whether her mother drank too much. Wait, she wasn't laughing. She was crying. She was hysterical. My head began to clear. I couldn't understand her.

Then there was silence.

Then Susan's father.

"Richard," he said, the word came slowly, "it's Susan. Susan's dead, my daughter is dead."

I tried to catch the significance of what he-was saying. I understood the words but they didn't seem to mean anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes," I said.

"We got a call from the consulate in New York. It was an accident. She was hit by some Israeli truck as she was crossing the street, near her hotel."

"Yes," I said.

"I'm leaving for Israel tomorrow to bring her back."

Words. Only words. What were they supposed to mean?

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Well, things are pretty hectic around here right now. I'll call you when I get back and let you know about the funeral and everything."

"Funeral?"

"Yes, for Susan."

And then I knew.

A feeling of nameless dread.

Cold all over.

Vomit into phone receiver.

Go to window and look out.

Past Jackson Street.

Past Bay.

Past Oakland.

Sun is rising.

Past sun.

Past Atlantic.

Past Mediterranean.

Tel Aviv.

Susan is dead in Tel Aviv.

Nobody to hate but a stupid truck driver.

All that way, just to get killed.

Not even some stern, uncompromising, forsaking God to blame.

If I had kept her with me, as she had wanted, that truck might have been in some other part of the country on the day of our arrival.

Remember vaguely talking about everything in life being probability, even death. The meaning of life is that life has no meaning.

Feel so, so empty.

It wasn't possible. Seven years before, I had been playing war in vacant sandlots, Joey, fall down, damnit. You're supposed to be killed. Death, only another of life's games.

Five years before, I had awkwardly had my first woman.

Only three years since Mora had taught me the art of love.

How many women?

How many?

Hundreds?

To be sure. Maybe even a thousand, counting all of them.

Who knew?

Or cared?

And now, just as I was learning what it could be like, the joy of real love, Susan was dead.

I felt cheated, robbed of my most prized possession. In my selfishness. How many women would I have to go through next time, always comparing?